English setters Chumley, Cyrano and Churchill have provided so many cute tales while hunting

It was Chumley's point this week that reminded me that the Oct. 18 pheasant season opening is sneaking up.

"Which way did he go, which way did he go?" Was the question oft asked by a confused Elmer Fudd as he hunted that wiley wabbitt Bugs Bunny.

It was sort of funny as long as it was Elmer's tune of confusion, and it wasn't being sung by us.

But if you spend enough time in the outdoors, in my case decades, you have certainly asked yourself or the confused clouds overhead, "Which way did he go?"

Here are a few of my confugaled confusions in the outdoors. Some I've written about before, somewhere, while others come to mind from out of the blue.

May as well start with pheasant hunting cuz it's the coming season.

One of my favorites took place while hunting behind my old English setter Cyrano the nose.

It was one of those days he was on and I was off. He had pointed two roosters, and I followed up their flushing by missing sucker shots.

The first time he just gave me that, "Hey, everyone misses once in awhile."

The second miss received a down-the-nose look that said, "Wot's wot here, old chap?"

When I missed that third shot he didn't buy my, "Darn gun isn't working right," and commenced to lift his left rear leg and piddle from my L.L. Bean bird boot top to my knee.

I was angry, but later got the last laugh, a once in a lifetime one. Seems later in the same season that Cyrano was letting a high diddle, my setter had to pittle, and was poised with his left rear leg high to the sky.

It was while posed in this interesting balancing act that dogs can still manage with the wind in their face to catch the downwind whiff of a pheasant hiding in nearby cover.

He was jacked up in a classic point - nose tilted upward, eyes glazed, tail high and right front leg lifted off the ground.

No problem there.

The problem was that he never brought his left rear piddling leg back to terra firma and actually tipped over while on point.

And where have you seen that lately?

How dedicated is a setter, a pointer or spaniel to holding a point?

Try this on for size.

I had seen a brace of rooster pheasant fly into a swamp. I had been trucking with Churchill all day without raising a single grouse, woodcock or rooster and decided to wade in.

And within minutes I found myself wading through water up to my navel while my English setter swam beside me, only ceasing his dog paddle when he climbed over the many tussocks that were as plentiful as ants at a picnic.

We were wading and swimming when Churchill's tail shot upright. He had gotten a whiff of a pheasant. His head tilted upward, eyes glazed, tail upright, and slowly sank while on point.

I didn't wait to time him on how long he would hold a point underwater and grabbed him by the neck and pulled him upward.

He surfaced just as the rooster blew the tussock and tumbled before the bark of my over and under 20 gauge.

When I returned home my ever loving new bride of more than 50 years Char asked me if I had won my bird in hand in a mud-wrestling contest.

Now I've had English setters for nearly 50 years and every once in a blue moon I've had to wonder whether they forgot what a pheasant smelled like.

Chauncy, Churchill, Chaucer, Cyrano, Chumley and Artemis have all racked up points on mice, snakes, newts, frogs, butterflies and given me a good laugh.

Not all their faux pas points were on all creatures small, but on some great as well.

It was Winston, who was about the size of a bowling ball with a tail, who went into a point, and when I kicked the tall grass to flush the expected bird up jumped a whitetail buck that apparently had swiped the rack of a moose.

You have to be careful while coming up on your pointing dog. At the base of the bush, on one of the better woodcock alder runs, I kicked the bush to flush the timberdoodle.

Secreted there was a yellow jackets' nest. Well, I never knew that this tired old lump of lard could move so fast. While I outran a bevy of bees a few sunk their stingers in my gluteus maximus.

Chumley recently went into a couple of interesting points - both carrying potential dangers, but he is used to it.

He is always teasing snapping turtles, a game in which your "jump backs" must be on the money. He discovered that when the snapper gets tangled in weeds that you determine that you are teasing the butt and not the nose.

Chum's recent points were a medium-sized black bear, who couldn't figure out what my little feathered fur ball was doing, and a huge, coiled black snake, which can cause a real pain in the nose.

I've never been real proud of my reaction when it comes to saving my tail section in an emergency.

It sounds like such points as those above were all bad, but there is a real up side to them.

Many a cold winter night, beside the fireplace, while combing the fine feathers of a loving dog's tail I'd remind my pooches of the past, and I swear some smiled or winked, and a couple shed a tear of laughter or "wasn't it wonderful?"

Those were the days, my friend. I thought they'd never end.

COONDOG HUNT: Tri-County Coon Dog Club will sponsor its largest raccoon hunt Saturday with headquarters at the Ludlow Fish and Game Club. Entries will be accepted at the club the night of the hunt between 1 and 6 p.m.. There will be a free breakfast. The hunt fee is $20 per dog per handler and a $5 charge per guest with 60 percent returned as prize money. For more information, contact Jim Patenaude at (413) 543-4271.